Lovely Trigger (Tristan & Danika 3)

My mouth kicked up in a grin.  “We were trying to get pregnant.  She was insanely young for it at the time, but there was nothing sane about us.  We were crazy about each other.  She miscarried our baby, and I was a complete flake about it.  After that, well, the losses started piling up until I’m sure she’ll say we lost more than we ever had together.  That’s not true.  We had more than we ever lost, but either way, I screwed it up.  I could blame the drinking and the drugs, but however you cut it, I’m the one that let her slip through my fingers.”

He looked thoughtfully concerned, his fingers steepled in front of him.  “I always got the impression that you held yourself responsible for her leg?”

I winced.  “I am responsible.  She came to see me after the divorce.  I can’t remember why she came to my apartment, I was high as a kite and wrecked over the divorce.  I have huge chunks of that night missing from my brain, but I do remember yelling at her to get a ride from Dean, who I later found out had drugged her.  You know what happened after that.”

“My God,” he uttered softly.

“I’m glad you found Bianca, James.  It’s not something you can describe until it hits you, but I see that you’ve found the one, and I’m happy for you.”

He studied me, his eyes pensive, but also pitying.  “I’m sorry, Tristan.  I didn’t realize this was what you were dealing with.  I thought it was some scenario where she was wanted too much from you, and you went on your way.  I knew that you loved her, but I thought that you’d let her go by choice.”

“By choice?  No, my friend.  This was not my choice.  I screwed up plenty, but if it were up to me, it would never have turned out like this.”

“I don’t know how you’ve done it.  With Bianca…she turned me away for a month and I thought I was losing my mind.  I can’t imagine going through what you have, all the years, all the distance.  I don’t know where you find the strength.”

I shut my eyes, the words pouring over me like some soothing torture.  “I don’t know either.  I don’t have a clue.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

SIX YEARS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

DANIKA

I was beyond flattered to be asked by Bianca to be a bridesmaid.  I agreed instantly.  I hugged her when she told me, and embarrassingly, even teared up.

Her friendship had been very good for me.  We’d particularly bonded after the shooting.  I’d visited her whenever I could as she was healing.

She managed in that quiet way of hers to talk me into posing for a series of paintings for her while she recovered.

I was terribly flattered, and excited, because she’d promised me a painting for my time.

She was extremely generous with her art, offering several times to give me pieces I was taken with in the past, but I’d always put her off, insisting on paying for the two small paintings that I did end up buying from her collection.  This though, the exchange of inspiration for art, didn’t feel like taking advantage, and so I accepted her offer of taking my pick from her next collection after we’d finished with the sessions.

One painting turned into another, until I became her favorite subject, second only to James.

The hours turned to days, hell, to weeks, and her next show, which premiered a mere of eight months after her first, had so many paintings of me in it that I couldn’t keep track.  I became a bonafide part of the show.  It was a strange experience, to say the least, but a good one.

We’d opened up to each other as I’d sat and she’d painted, even talking to some extent about our rough childhoods.  As far as nightmares went, I thought hers took the cake, but it was good to have a friend that could relate to having and surviving a troubled past.  To climbing out of a pile of rubble and leaving it behind.

It was hard, but I made a promise to myself, for the sake of two people I adored who were getting the dream wedding they deserved, to just be nice to Tristan for the whole affair.

Not just civil.  Not just less hostile.  But nice.

I could do this, I told myself, many times.

And when push came to shove, it was frightening just how easy it was to fall back into the old rapport.

Not just easy.  Natural.

I had this moment every time I went to visit Bev and Jerry at their house.  I’d walk in the door, and everyone in the place would just stop what they were doing and rush at me.  The kids, no matter how big they got, would wrap themselves around me.  The dogs, sans Mango now, but with an extra puppy in the mix, would come and crowd me until I sat down somewhere and let them all converge on me.  Bev would come and kiss me on the forehead, even while Jerry did a drive by all the chaos to pat me on the head affectionately.

I was squeezed so tight that the air left my lungs, licked on every part of skin that wasn’t covered, and it usually lasted for several minutes.  That many kids, and people, and dogs should not have existed comfortably into one space, but it didn’t just feel comfortable, it felt right.  Like I was coming home.

Every single time.

That’s how this felt.

Tristan and I were entering a new and unfamiliar chapter, only it didn’t feel that way.  It felt like no time had passed at all.

It was terrifying.  And comforting, because it hadn’t all just been some dream, there’d been a reason I’d gone through hell with this man, for this man, some true good to precede the bad.  Over the years, I’d half-convinced myself that I’d imagined most of the good.  It was just easier that way.